Look Inside Author Maria Hinojosa's Punta Cana Home
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In Oprah Daily’s series My Creative Space, newsmakers, celebrities, and other notable names reveal the place where they feel most inspired, open up about their prized possessions, and share a few things they can’t work without. Don’t miss our other installments, with Paula Sutton, Elizabeth Gilbert, Yvonne Orji, Ina Garten, Gloria Steinem, and more.
How does pioneering Latina journalist Maria Hinojosa describe her home away from home in the Dominican Republic? “I live in a birdhouse with hummingbirds and hawks.” It’s a fair summation; the five-bedroom, which she calls La Pajarita (Spanish for “small bird”), features a thatched roof and is situated in the middle of a lush, coastal jungle on the edge of the island’s easternmost city, Punta Cana. “The house has an open-air design, so the sun, the moon, the stars, the birds, the plants, the fruits, and the noises of life in the jungle all become part of the space,” says Hinojosa. “Particularly, the birds. On more than one occasion, I’ve had to place red and orange shirts on the floor to draw them out of the rooms and back outdoors.”
Avian trespassers aside, La Parajita proved to be the perfect place for the Latino USA executive producer and anchor to write Once I Was You, a powerful memoir that plumbs the points of convergence between her own journey as a Mexican American immigrant and the complex history of immigration in the United States. That’s in part because La Parajita—which was designed by her husband, Dominican artist German Pérez, and includes his vibrant murals throughout—is something of a “meta altar” that celebrates their ancestors and nature.
Says Hinojosa, “It honors the magical and the unexpected, the creativity and passion of our culture.” Not to mention that the flora-and-fauna-filled landscape offers a welcome (if not necessary) reprieve from the hustle and bustle of her day-to-day life in New York City, where she’s the founder of Futuro Media, an acclaimed nonprofit news outlet dedicated to telling the stories of underrepresented communities in the United States. “For a book this personal, I needed the space to do a lot of psychological and spiritual preparation,” she says. “As a journalist, I’m used to producing tightly packaged stories that are rarely about me—so to write in this new, more exposed way required me to isolate from distraction and unlock my fear.”
Ahead, the award-winning journalist—who is currently working on creative fiction contributions for forthcoming anthologies by Margaret Atwood and Sandra Guzmán—takes us inside her beloved La Parajita. Along the way, she also reveals her perfectly imperfect traveling desk, the power of a good swimming session, and more.
My Traveling Desk
Before I started writing Once I Was You, I knew I wanted a desk that I could easily carry from room to room at La Parajita. So our friend Hector made one from some spare wood and decorated it with a colorful, abstract tile mosaic.
I call it my traveling desk because it’s small and light—which makes it easy to write from different locations: If it’s raining, I’ll set it up in my bedroom; if it’s nice outside, I’ll go out on the deck just off my bedroom. It’s a little wobbly and not at all perfect—but I love it for that very reason.
I admire people who live in homes that are perfectly in order, like my dad, but that doesn’t work for me. Instead, I’m more like Frida Kahlo. Even though her house in Mexico is covered with art, there’s still this imperfect order—which is also true of my desk. In fact, even the desk chair, which was made by artisans here in the Dominican Republic, isn’t quite the right height, so I have to sit on several pillows. That might be annoying to some people, but for me, the fact that I’m surrounded by items that come from the land around my favorite place is very emotionally and spiritually grounding—and allows me to focus on writing.
My Writing Routine
Before I sit down to write, I have to do a few things: Even though I start every morning with meditation—which clears my head and centers my mind—how I meditate changes day to day. It could be anything from a 15-minute sound bath to an hour-long hypnotic state in which I’ll talk to my plants, as well as all the creatures that live with and around us, including Walter, our mini mixed-breed rescue dog, who was named after Walter Cronkite and Walter Mercado. Once I’m finished with that, I’ll do some high-intensity exercise, like boxing, before setting up my workspace. As I mentioned, if it’s nice out, I’ll bring my desk and chair outside, and I’ll situate them so I’m facing the birdfeeders and the jungle, then I’ll arrange the pillows in whatever way is most comfortable and open up my laptop while having a café con leche. By 9:15, I’m ready to go.
My Hardworking Headwraps
Whenever I’m writing, I need to keep my hair pulled back and out of my face, especially when I’m in the Dominican Republic, where it’s so hot. I used to wear a bandanna—which, for me, feels like a very Chicana look—but now I put it up in a turban-style headwrap. It’s not at all a fashion statement; it’s simply the most practical way to stay cool when you have long, thick hair. That said, there is a spiritual aspect to the practice that’s rooted in my Mayan history, my husband’s Taino heritage, and in the Afro-Caribbean and Indigenous religions and cultures that I respect and want to honor. Because of that, I feel more powerful when I wrap it up.
My Trick for Meeting Deadlines
Because of my background as a journalist, I work best when I have concrete assignments and deadlines, so that’s the approach I took when writing my memoir. I told my editor that she was my boss, and as such, she needed to outline what to tackle and by when. That meant even if I had writer’s block—which, to be honest, I had a lot—or was struggling with self-doubt, I didn’t have the luxury to take a break from writing. I was on deadline, plus I had a lot of other responsibilities to get to since this wasn’t my full-time job. As a result, I didn’t have the time to not be inspired, and I would force myself to push through even when it felt like it wasn’t clicking. I’d tell myself to just keep going and that I’d deal with whatever I’d written the next day—that or I’d end up writing something entirely new.
My Daily Swimming Session
Whenever I’m intensely writing something—as was the case with Once I Was You—I try to swim as much as possible. I’d either go to the lagoons near our house in Punta Cana or to the ocean on just about a daily basis. A lot of that comes from my mother, who at 85 years old still swims a mile or two whenever she can in Lake Michigan. She taught me how swimming can induce an almost transcendental state, and, in my opinion, there’s actually a lot of similarities between swimming and writing. For example, when I’d go for a dip in the lagoon by our home, it’d be scary to explore a new area, which is also how I feel when I’m writing. As I’m working, it can seem incredibly risky, but then I remind myself that nothing bad is going to happen, because nothing bad has ever happened—there’s nothing poisonous, you’re not going to get sucked in—and eventually, you get through it. More importantly, though, you see that you have the capacity to do it.
My Take on Medical Marijuana
As a journalist who covers breaking news, I’ve had to report on all sorts of terrible things, from interviewing refugees who’ve been raped to covering 9/11. Telling the stories of that tragedy in New York made it really hard to sleep, and I felt like I was experiencing a weeks-long panic attack. So I started smoking pot to try and manage my emotions. Even though it helped me rest, live with less fear, and increased my creativity and productivity, I felt a good deal of guilt and shame because of the stigma associated with it—that is, until I really started researching its medical benefits. Now I’m legally prescribed medical marijuana, which helped me get into the right headspace while writing my memoir.
My Altar—and Meta Altar
At my home in Harlem, I have an altar that I keep active 365 days a year with candles, fresh water, and flowers. My husband and I used to make altars for New York museums, so over the years, I’ve been lucky enough to collect ceramic and papier-maché figures of Mexican saints and muertitos—symbols that honor loved ones who have passed—which now decorate my own altar. Other items that are currently on it include a postcard Celia Cruz wrote to me before she died, a photo of Frida Kahlo, pictures of people I knew who perished from 9/11 , as well as friends and loved ones I’ve lost to Covid-19. There’s also a newspaper clipping that reads “100,000 Dead of Coronavirus,” which we’re now far past, tragically. Every day when I’m in Harlem, I make a point to light one of the candles, burn some incense, and take a moment to connect with everyone on my altar.
But here in La Parajita, I don’t have an altar. Instead, I consider the whole house my altar—or my meta altar—because it honors our culture, nature, and the ancestors who we come from and whose land we are on. In the day, it’s filled with vibrant colors and natural beauty, and at night, there are candles everywhere. I love when people visit and remark on how magical the house is, how happy they are here, and how it inspires them—because that’s exactly how I feel, too.
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